One Day
by KiobiTheKid
Summary: In retrospect formal parties aren't really your thing.
1. Chapter 1

Music bursts over you in a sweeping cadence, warm bodies crowding against your own and you sigh. You are Alfred F Jones, goddammit, parties are your thing! You revel in merry making, and laughing with people who only like you because you brought the beer, and dancing with all willing. It's sort of your thing you guess, being able to relax with strangers over warm alcohol and flamboyant partying that turned more boozy and peaceful as the night wore on.

Glancing around the ornate ball room and trying to shrink into your stiff suit, you regret to say this is not that type of party. All sorts of important people are gathered here, eating tiny finger food and making tiny polite conversation. The formality makes you uncomfortable to say the least, but you guess you're used to it; your father was the president of the United States when you were younger, after all. Formal events and the ability to make small talk had been essential to gaining the trust of the American people, you guessed. Squinting behind your glasses, you eye the refreshments, and make your way over to them, trying not to think about how much you really disproved of these things. Mostly you thought these events had no substance beyond petty ass-kissing and beautiful orchestral background music; sifting with rich white people was not the way to win over a country, you had thought. It doesn't really matter now though; you only came to this ball to appease your father by kissing up when he was too busy working to do so, and you had no desire to be president.

Cringing into the wine that you pilfered from the white refreshments table you try to scope out someone you might know; alas, politians as far as the eye can see. You vaguely wish that this party was full of bearable people. Formal events sucked, but you remember going to one of them back in college and being delighted to find that most at the party were some varying degree of science major. Despite the lack of beer and pop music you had really hit it off, and by the end of the night, hadn't even minded the terrible suit so much! A smile finds its way briefly across your face, but falters at the sight before you- surely none of these politically inclined folk would like to talk Ol' Sputnik or the theories of Krebs with you.

"Lookin' a bit cast out there mate! Fancy a smoke with me? You look like you could use it." A voice sidles up beside you and you startle, but turn around to smile politely at them.

The voice, shockingly British in origin, belongs to a slim(and rather short) man, not a day older than thirty. Still older than you, but compared to the rest of the party, quite young! You can't help but note the ease with which he stands in his tailored suit, and his loud green eyes beneath heavy eyebrows and straw yellow hair. He certainly is British, you think to yourself smirking, and hot.

This is another thing you dislike about political gatherings. Stuffy old men rarely understood fluid sexuality or social conduct of the 21st century, and that caused you to feel alienated. Being bisexual was never something you hid or hid behind, but now being in a room with strangers who just wouldn't approve sets you on edge. Instead of dwelling on these thoughts you smile apologetically at your companion.

"Sorry bro, I'm not really a smoker. Some fresh air might be nice though." He snorts and you think you hear him say something like "suit yourself" before he leads you across the crowded ball room and towards the back door, pushing it open to some sort of pavilion. The man wastes no time slipping a cigarette out of his suit pocket and lighting up. You try to catch his face in your eyes without staring, wondering why he's here. Foreign relations? Hm.

"Arthur Kirkland," he introduces himself between drags, and you settle a look upon the pavilion. Little lighted tents line the distance, not too far from where you're standing and, oh jesus, a gently sloped in-ground pool sits not feet away from you.

"Alfred F. Jones," you reply with a nod, trying not to smile widely at the notion of jumping belly first into the pool. A choked laugh erupts from the gentleman; Arthur.

"Sodding Alfred Jones? Wasn't your father the leader of this country not too long ago?" he leans up to your face and you feel your personal space being invaded in all the right ways, until this righteous smirk erupts across his pale complexion and he continues with, "I seem to remember you! How old were you, when all the tabloids had their claws in you, 14? They thought you were just the damn cutest thing, they did, running around the front lawn of the white house in cowboy clothing and waving excitedly to passerby." You choke- you thought people had forgotten about that. But he isn't finished yet.

"Personally, I thought you were a bit of a wasted talent. Why, your parents never even entered you in the rodeo!" Your ears turn the brightest shade of red you think you can manage and despite being sort of hurt by the man's scathing remarks you are intrigued; its hard to meet people who aren't kissing your ass all the time.

So shrugging, you reply, "You know it dude, I was a wonder with the horses. Bulls too. Ride em, cowboy!" Neighing sounds and fake riding motions are difficult to resist so you don't, making a genuine fool of yourself in front of all these fancy people. Really you don't care, and Arthur seems to get a kick out of it. His laughter is loud like his eyes, as well as infectious. Soon you're both doubled over in mirth and you don't even mind the strange looks you're getting. That's the thing about you- you've never cared what other people thought. Apparently neither does Arthur.

The giggling subsides and you both stand there in comfortable silence, Arthur taking another drag on his cigarette before turning to you with a shit-eating expression and saying, "Now lad, it's probably none of my business, but you seemed bored out of your wits in there? Mind taking a swim with me, relax a little?" You eye the pool and then him and then the pool and without missing a beat you both rip off dress shoes and dress socks, and then you're rolling up your pant legs. In hardly any time at all you're sitting calf deep in water, next to a stranger, wine in hand, in front of so many politians. Its invigorating to say the least. He smiles at you, a sincere smile this time, and you slip off your suit jacket, leaning forward and kicking your feet up in the cool water. Arthur leans towards you as well, and you think that this night might be something worth remembering after all.


	2. Chapter 2

A laugh escapes from you as Arthur scrabbles to keep you in an upright position, leading you up the sidewalk to your home. The party had ended up being a lot of fun, you thought, if not shaming and ridiculous. Cooling your feet in a pool in the warm June night and being gawked at by stuffy officials had just been the hit off, actually; the evening had quickly transcended into Arthur handing off wine to you until you were drunk enough to try one of his cigarettes (you nearly choked on the thing. he laughed at you for that) and in depth reflection of the possibilities of time travel and tooth paste that never fell off the tooth brush.

There was a sort of eloquence about him, you had learned, that reeked of swearing and dirty humor. He liked making fun of people- most of all the people he loved- although he absolutely hated being made fun of. The man was intellectual and sort of an asshole which made for great conversation. Classic novels came up, and Dr. Seuss, and somewhere along the lines you began discussing trashy Japanese films and the throes of Edgar Allan Poe. You even got in a word or two about the potentials of worm holes and alternate dimensions and aliens, to which he laughed raucously and admitted his only knowledge of those things derived from a British show he fancied, Doctor Who.

So it came to pass that after your eighth glass of wine and a lot of rambling about things that didn't really matter that mattered a whole lot, Arthur was hauling you up from the pool and throwing your shoes at you and saying that you had both better "bugger off" before things got "rather out of hand". You thought the way he talked was funny, so you told him and he just huffed, pulling you barefoot back into the ballroom and then out again, into the parking lot.

And now here you are, laughing into the blonde's overwrought shoulder and hugging him. He had insisted on driving your drunken ass home, and although he seems exasperated with you he can't hide his smile as you nuzzle into the crook of his neck and tell him you don't want him to leave you yet. He invites himself inside- or maybe you invite him, you aren't sure- telling you that he'll only stay a few moments longer, to make sure you get to bed alright. You think to yourself that it isn't necessary because you live with an overprotective brother, but you want him to visit longer so you keep it to yourself.

You stumble through the house and to the most far-flung room, your bedroom, pulling him along by his pale wrist. The door is ajar and you dive inside, taking in the features you're accustomed to because of your companion. DC and Marvel posters alike plaster the neighboring walls and posters of Apollo 13 hang above your headboard. Flopping down on the bed you look at the map of the USA you pinned up on the farthest wall, little star stickers covering the places you've already been and tacks on the places you want to go. Clothes and the like are in disarrangement all over your floor and half-finished cutesy comics are cluttered over your laptop in a corner.

You feel it's immensely rude to just be laying there ignoring your guest, but the alcohol has you woozy and uncaring so you just sort of flop over to face his direction. You notice you are still holding his wrist. He slips his hand up and his lengthy fingers become enraptured in yours and you feel your face heat up. Arthur merely smiles, sort of small and pitying and maybe something else, but you don't really care because he reaches the covers of your bed to rest over your still suited body and lands a kiss on your sweaty brow, pushing your quirky hair out of your eyes.

He's got this look in his eyes like he's about to go and so you squeeze his hand and say drowsily, "Will you lay with me?" It's probably close to the most unromantic thing you've ever done and half of it gets lost in the pillow, but it appears you've finally caught him off guard and he just nods, taking of his suit jacket and pushing you over to lay under the covers with you. Turning into him you spoon, bringing a hand to curl into his chest and smelling his hair. He smells like vanilla and smoke you think, and it's the last thing in your mind before you drift off.

Upon waking you notice the dull ache in your back from sleeping on your side, a roiling in your stomach, and then the fact that you never changed into pajamas. The night trickles back to you and you notice a lack of body beside you and you sigh. You expect it, but can't help feeling a little disappointed.

It isn't until much later in the afternoon you find his name- Arthur Kirkland- filed away in the contacts of your blackberry.


End file.
